I awaken, in the clothes from the night before, in my bed, still with that sense of lightness, of floating, of something being not right. My limbs feel oddly weak, my movements sluggish, as if I'm dragging myself through a thick liquid.

I wander along to the kitchen, see Tom already stood at the stove, boiling the kettle. The sight seems too ordinary, too normal. Steam from the kettle's spout fogs up the cold metal of the locket around his neck, which sways as he bends over to fish a teaspoon out of a drawer.

"Morning," he says over his shoulder.

I collapse into a chair. After a minute or so, he places a scalding mug of tea before me, mist rising off it in tendrils.

"Thank you," I say quietly, wrapping my hands around the mug. It should be burning my palms, but all I feel is faint warmth.

"Are you alright?" he asks, concern lacing his voice, as he sits opposite me, fingers curled around the handle of his own mug.

"I will be," I say wearily. "Once I've been to Albania."

"You sure you don't want me to come with you?" he presses, a slight frown in place. I shake my head in response.

"It shouldn't take long," I begin, after a short pause. "I'll be back by tomorrow morning. Just sit tight and hang onto that locket for me."

He nods, touching the locket absentmindedly. "Okay."

We drink our tea together, eat breakfast together. I pack, prepare to leave. We say our goodbyes. I embrace Tom tightly, the metal of the locket pressing against my collarbone. Once we've released each other, I smile up at him, take his hands in my own. In them, there is the promise of a new beginning, a new life, a new family. My blood, my heir, my brother and most of all, my friend. I feel, for the first time in a long while, hope blossoming in my chest.

"I'll be back before you know it," I say, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. Then I walk out the door and, with one final glance over my shoulder, I disapparate.

My cave in the mountains. I walk through the entrance, out of the bitter chill of the air, and into a long tunnel. It's eerily quiet inside, the howling wind of the summits silenced by the ancient cavern walls. Little green pockets of fire ignite to light my way, their emerald glimmer glistening off the bedrock.

I round a corner, and the cave widens into a vast subterranean cavity. Crystals sprawl across all surfaces, their bluish glow bathing the cavern in a watery tint. Stalactites drip from the ceiling, some so consumed by quartz that they glitter like ghostly chandeliers. In one corner, there is a large, ancient mirror, covered in a dusty sheet. The cave is filled with rows of black stone altars, carved with whorls and symbols and forgotten hieroglyphs. And upon most of the altars lie bodies in varying stages of completion. Some are faceless; others are missing limbs.

I approach the line of completed forms, making my way towards the one altar whose engravings blaze a brilliant green. On it lies a beautiful man, about twenty or so, with flawless dark skin and rich, unseeing, onyx eyes. My next body, were I to die suddenly and unexpectedly.

I check the altar, ensure the necromancy is still working, inspect my enchantments. All appears to be in order. As if reassured by this, I feel my body begin to lose its lightness, sluggishness.

My attention is suddenly caught by a different body, a few altars down. I move towards it, sensing something oddly familiar about its appearance. Of course, I know that I must've made it, but most of my completed bodies were grown so long ago that I don't usually remember most of their faces until I come to wear them.

Her whole face, cast with blue shadows, comes into view, and I stop dead. How many times have I seen that face, as lifeless as it is now? How many times have I awoken screaming to the image of her dead eyes staring into my soul?

It's the girl from my dreams, that much is certain. The girl that is always dead, lying alongside a similarly lifeless Harry.

You shall never perish until you have vanquished a great evil.

Is this the face of my future? The face of my fate? The body which, with its death, will finally drag with it my spirit to the underworld?

I flinch back from the body as if burned, unable to stand gazing at its face. I turn, run towards the nearest cluster of crystals, slam to a stop before them. Sinking to my knees, I place both palms on the icy quartz, throwing my power, my magic into the rock. It begins to warm, glowing brighter and brighter and getting hotter and hotter and still I clutch onto it, piling all my strength into the milky depths. Crystals such as these can be used to channel the spirits of prophets- but only if the summoner is powerful enough.

"My future," I gasp out, straining. "I need to know my future."

And then the heat disperses from under my fingers, and the sapphire glow of the crystal leaches upwards to form a shimmering, translucent blue figure: a woman dressed in the robes of an ancient Greek priestess. She gazes down at me, her face grave.

"Salazar," she says, and her ancient voice reverberates around the cavern. "It was foretold that you would summon me."

I go to speak, but she holds up a finger to silence me.

"Your destiny has been long in the making, Salazar," she continues. "Everything that has happened to you has led you here. And your fate shall lead you a while longer."

"I want to know my future," I say, my voice surprisingly strong.

"And you shall hear it," she replies. "You, who have sought so long to be immortal, shall be the architect of your own undoing. You shall create your own greatest foe, and he will bind your lives together so that one's death shall spell certain doom for the other. Friend shall become enemy, and war will ensue, a war that can only be ended by the deaths of three that cannot die."

My heart feels as if it has stopped beating. "So I will die?" I whisper.

"It is as I have said," she replies, and dissolves into mist. The crystal remains dull and colourless, its life utterly drained.

I get to my feet gingerly, my mind heavy with the words of the prophecy, and stumble over to the girl's body. If she is to be my fate, I must prepare.

Wearily, I begin the complex rituals that will make her skin the next one I wear. The altar that bears her body is glowing bright green by the time I depart.

I only spend one night in the cave, but the burden of the prophecy makes it feel like an eternity. The sight of the Cambridgeshire House, with its familiar red bricks and clawing ivy, is immensely reassuring as I arrive back, thinking of Tom, and how we'll drink champagne from crystal flutes in celebration, lounging on a picnic rug in the garden, the bright summer flowers bursting around us, the sun warming our faces. A carefree life, all worries put behind us.

I open the front door, calling out Tom's name.

There's no reply, but I'm not deterred, strolling into the kitchen, perhaps to catch him in the act of making some tea, but he's not there. I try the lounge, with no success. Frowning a little, I walk towards his bedroom and ease the door open cautiously, calling out his name again.

Nothing. The room is completely empty, the covers on the bed made neatly, everything folded away and tidied to perfection.

"He's not here," says an unfamiliar voice from behind me.

I spin instantly, wand raised, to face a young woman. Something about her is oddly familiar, but I'm certain that I've never seen her before. She wears a simple yellow summer dress, complete with an apron and a pair of oven gloves slung casually over one shoulder, her hair pulled back.

"Who are you?" I ask, my wand still raised defensively.

She glances at my wand dismissively and begins walking away. "Come," she calls over her shoulder. "I have muffins in the oven that are just about ready to come out."

Left with little alternative, I follow her dutifully to the kitchen, which is now filled with the comforting aroma of baking. The woman opens the oven and fishes out a tray of fresh muffins, transferring them carefully onto a cooling rack on the table.

"Who are you?" I repeat, confused, taking a seat.

A newspaper appears on the table before me. "You might want to read that," the woman says absentmindedly, plopping another steaming muffin down.

"Not until you tell me who you are," I counter stubbornly.

She sits down across from me in Tom's chair, slinging her oven gloves back over her shoulder. "I'm the house, of course," she says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"What?" I ask, thrown off balance.

"The house. Why are you so surprised? You're the one who made me sentient, after all."

"You. Are the sentient form of this house," I state, somewhat in shock.

"Of course," she says. "But that's not important right now. What's essential is that you read that newspaper."

I glance down at the paper- an edition of The Daily Prophet- and unfold it, smoothing down the front page so I can read the headline.

"You-Know-Who strikes again: sixteen dead," I read aloud, feeling more and more confused with every word. I glance up at the woman. "What is this?"

"Read on," she says gravely.

"Sixteen muggles have been confirmed as victims in another attack last night by the self-styled Dark Lord, bringing the total this month up to seventy-four. This was the third such attack this week for which responsibility has been claimed by the disciples of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the so-called Death Eaters." I look at the woman in utter bewilderment. "I don't understand."

"Look at the date," she says simply.

I do as she says. "The fifteenth of August… 1962." I frown at the paper in uncertainty. "That's impossible," I whisper. "It's 1944. I've only been gone for a day. Eighteen years can't have passed."

"What year did Merope Gaunt sell the locket?" The woman asks calmly.

"1926," I reply automatically.

"And how many years was it until the locket was back in your bloodline?"

"1926 to 1944… eighteen years," I say, a horrible, sudden realisation dawning upon me.

The woman regards me with something akin to disapproval. "You stole time, Salazar," she says sternly. "You managed to be reborn while the locket was out of your bloodline. Did you really think there wouldn't be consequences? That the universe wouldn't demand repayment?" She leans back in her chair. "You stole eighteen years from the universe. So the universe stole eighteen years from you. Just when it knew that it would do the most damage."

"Where. Is. Tom." I say through gritted teeth. This is bad, this is so much worse than I could have possibly anticipated.

"He waited for you, you know," the woman says. "Waited for a long time. But in the end, he came to the inevitable conclusion that you had used him to save your own skin- and then abandoned him."

"Where is he." I demand, panic rising with each second.

"You're clever. I'm sure you can work it out."

My brain churns through endless possibilities, but all roads seem to lead to the unthinkable. This can't be happening. I can't have finally found a friend like Tom, only to have him snatched away from me. This must be some kind of cruel joke.

And yet I know, somehow, in the very marrow of my bones, that the house speaks the truth. Even if the loss of Tom is a concept too horrible to come to terms with.

I stand up, suddenly, out of my chair. "I know where I have to go," I say abruptly. There's one person who I can trust, who might know where Tom is, who might be able to clear all of this up.

The woman- the house- just sits there, eating a muffin.

"Tell me," I say haltingly, as I turn to go, "the dark lord in the article. Is it Tom?" My voice breaks slightly with the anguish of those words.

The woman looks at me with sad eyes. "Tom is your best friend," she says quietly. "But it is his fate to be your worst enemy."

Slowly, she fades away, leaving a rack of cooling muffins behind on the table.

Sorry :)

In my defence, we can't possibly have a happy ending just yet. This is where the fun (and crying) begins!

As always, thanks for sticking with me.

Amy Grace xx